


Clear Speech and Royal Blood

by BelovedFool, lesbaliens



Category: Farseer Trilogy - Robin Hobb
Genre: Banter, Buckkeep, Fluff, Foreshadowing, Friendship, Mild Angst, Obliviousness, One-Sided Attraction, Other, Riddles, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-25
Updated: 2017-01-25
Packaged: 2018-09-19 21:10:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,248
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9460511
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BelovedFool/pseuds/BelovedFool, https://archiveofourown.org/users/lesbaliens/pseuds/lesbaliens
Summary: An ordinary morning at Buckkeep, complete with lovely weather and some unwelcome remarks from the Fool that make Fitz's head hurt. Please read and review!





	

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Ясные речи и королевская кровь](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12887022) by [Jewellery](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jewellery/pseuds/Jewellery)



> I would like to thank A_Fool_in_Love for their lovely work rekindling my Buckkeep Fool muse. 
> 
> I would also like to thank spaceefreak for the roleplay that made this possible.

     I do not remember why it was I stood in the grounds, not what it was I was staring at, but I do remember that that was how he found me. Though he was adorned in bells, I did not hear him approach, nor did my Wit sense him; as always, my first indication of his presence was his opening remark. Today, it happened to be a sudden leap of Ratsy into my field of view, accompanied by the Fool’s voice, pitched low and squeaky as it was when the rat spoke. “Good morning, princeling.”

     I started, instinctively batting the grotesque thing away. “How many times must I ask you not to do that?” I admonished. I felt a wave of irritation that he was still able to sneak up on me so easily, despite all reasons he should not have been.

     The Fool seemed to take it in stride, backing away from me by means of a handspring. As he landed lightly on his feet, he grinned at me with open-mouthed innocence, and I again noted the air of childishness his smile gave him, especially when his teeth showed.

     “He seems sour this morning,” the Fool remarked to Ratsy, frowning at the little beast and putting himself nearly nose-to-nose with it. “A poor change from one normally so bitter.” These words were laced with something, but whether it was sarcasm or pity I could not tell.

     I was put instantly on the defensive, crossing my arms over my chest and frowning. “And what makes you say that?” I demanded impatiently.

     With a heavy sigh, the Fool abandoned his conversation with Ratsy, letting the sceptre hang loosely by his side. “You look like Burrich,” he stated bluntly, finally slipping out of the voice he used to cajole the folk of Buckkeep, “with your face contorted so. Such a shame to lose that Farseer beauty.” These words were definitely snide, but they still shocked me to the very core of my being.

     More than a few rude remarks came to my mind, but they were all drowned by my overwhelming desire to remove myself from the Fool’s presence: perhaps go down to the kitchens. However, I found my mouth moving instead of my legs. “You think me beautiful?”

     “Aren’t you all?” he retorted, and the half-mocking lilt had come back to his voice. “You, with your dark skin, and your thick black curls, and your able bodies.” He made a slight gesture, a simple shift of the shoulder, but in it I thought I sensed bitterness. Yes, I had all those things. All of my folk did. And one only had to look at the Fool to see that he did not.

     “I am not royal,” I said. That idea had been imprinted on me since my first night, and I spoke it with passing disregard. It could not hurt me anymore. I raised a brow, returning to his original remark. “So it does not matter if my face is ruined, nor spoiled with a frown.”

     The Fool shrugged one shoulder again, but this time it was intentional. “Oh, Fitzy,” he sighed heavily, as if he pitied me some great ignorance. “You are royal whether you appear regal or not. Those true of heart can see that. Half of the sun and even the shade have beheld you as you ought to be. But I suppose only a fool would dare admit it.”

     I knew there was a deeper meaning behind his words, but I lost most of my ability to analyse them when he spoke the word _regal_. So I responded to what I had heard before that. “Royal blood, I am. But I am not royal, Fool. I am no more royal than you are and you should not call me so.” I shook my head sadly; perhaps addressing my illegitimacy still could hurt me. So absorbed was I by this that I almost missed his next words.

     “I cannot claim royalty—that is true.” He presented me with a humble bow. “But I am as close to your kin as you are, if only in servitude. And I can see that you are more royal than some, no matter the happenings of your birth.”

     I felt myself scowl again. His speech seemed to chase itself in circles and bore into my head, making no more sense than a rhyme heard in a foreign language. “You make no sense,” I growled. “Do you find yourself incapable of speaking clearly or is everything a game to you?” After the words left my mouth I realized they sounded harshly similar to a question that had once caused a quarrel between us.

     It did not appear to bother him this time. The Fool waved his hand grandiosely and spoke as if he were revealing a common truth of life to me. ”Well, life gets monotonous after living it for so long. I have to make a game of it or be bored to death. Or perhaps—” He took a step and tapped my forehead with a pale finger— "you are simply too thick to grasp my meaning.”

     This did anything but quell my anger. “Long? You speak as if you were an old man, Fool.” Again I batted his hand away. “I think you find yourself incapable of speaking clearly after being the King’s fool for so long.”

     The Fool did not rise to the bait, speaking almost pompously. “I don’t mean that I am old, Fitz,” he corrected me. “I simply mean that life has been lived for so long. Centuries, and millennia, and ages, and ages again.”

     “And you act as if you bore witness to them all,” I muttered, dropping my gaze to my boots in the grass to avoid those near-colourless eyes that seemed to bore so deeply into me. “You are scarcely as old as I.”

     “I’m older,” I thought I heard him say with chilling calm, but his previous whimsical demeanour returned so quickly that I concluded I must have imagined it. “And how do you know you haven’t lived ages, hmm?”  

     “I know because I do not remember such a time,” I stated matter-of-factly. This brought an end to the ridiculous discussion, in my mind.

     The Fool had other ideas. “Do you remember your birth? Or feeding at your mother’s breast?” I felt a wave of anger mount inside me at that: he knew the answer was no, and knew too how much I lamented it. When I did not answer, he resumed: “Well then, you must have sprung from the ground, like the world’s most miserable flower.”

     His constant stream of mockery grated on my mood. “Have you no one else to bother, then?” I asked harshly. “Or am I the only one able to tolerate you today?”

     He had been balancing on one foot, and he brought his other to the ground with a sullen finality. “You are the only one ever able to tolerate me,” he said, all of the potential spite of the remark replaced only with sadness. He bowed again, this time stiffly, before turning to leave me. “Good day, Fitz.”

     I felt a certain shame wash over me, as well as disappointment in myself. I often spoke harshly to the people I loved, but speaking thus to the Fool, a true friend, made me feel worse than usual. I stepped forward to catch his shoulder. “Please don’t go. I didn’t mean it like that.”

     As deft as a weasel, the Fool slipped from my touch, but I sensed that was more from habit than spite. “How did you mean it, then?” He spoke gently, but I could tell it was a challenge.

     He had caught me. “Well, rather…I meant it the way I said it, but I did not mean to say it at all.” I dropped my hand. “Your riddles frustrate me, for I do not understand them.”

     He was seemingly more amused by my ignorance than upset at my previous speech. “They would be poor riddles indeed, if you understood them.” His voice was serious, but in his eyes I thought I saw a glint of mischief, as if he was grinning at me.

     “Yes, but…” Arguing with the Fool had always been futile. “Why must you speak in riddles?” I asked at last, though that question had never yielded me an answer before.

     “Two reasons, Fitzy-Fitz,” the Fool said in singsong, clearly pleased I had asked. “First, to keep my wit razor-sharp, all the better to do my job. Second—” here he sobered— “Burrich does not speak in riddles, and you hate him more often than not. Nor does Verity, whom you pity, nor Shrewd, whom you begrudge, nor even Molly, in whose presence you always seem to be sad. And yet, Chade speaks in riddles, and he is your greatest mentor thus far. Perhaps I pay attention, and seek to keep you rather than drive you away.”

     I certainly had not considered my relationships in this light. “I…But it confuses me,” I protested before I had fully grasped his meaning. “Although,” I reconsidered, “You would not be you if you were blunt with me. You would be far less interesting, even though I prefer conversation where both people understand each other.”

     “Many things confuse you.” The Fool was mocking me again. “Although, you would not be you if they did not, and it would be far less interesting to converse with you.”

     Of all the sorts of mockeries the Fool subjected me to, the one I hated the most was his throwing of my own words back at me. However, I decided it would be unwise to pursue this, simply offering my hand to shake instead. “We are at a truce then?”

     He made to shake my hand—he even went so far as to grab it—but then he quickly brought it to his lips and kissed it. Before I could react, he had dropped it and stepped back; I stared at him open mouthed as I felt a blush creep up my neck. I was completely at a loss.

     “We are at a truce,” he confirmed, blinking innocently. His tone shifted completely as he added: “Not even your prickly demeanour could dull the sweetness of your soul.”

     I suppressed a sigh and shook my head, my irritation returning. “Must you always make jest of me, Fool?”

     He sighed, but let out an annoyed _hmph_ at the end. “Must you always believe me to be making jest of you, Fitz?” he asked with a grandiose shrug.

     I found my arms crossed over my chest once more, though I did not recall putting them there. “You often are,” I said pointedly.

     The Fool wagged a finger at me and adopted what appeared to be an impersonation of Burrich’s expression of dissatisfaction. “Not as often as you believe me to be.”

     The expression looked odd on him, and all I could do was raise a brow. “And how am I to tell?” My mind was reeling simply trying to keep up with the conversation.

     “Quicken your mind, Fitzy-Fitz!” the Fool crowed as if it were obvious. “For you show great promise in other skills: physical, subtle, and even romantic. But your mind has yet to catch up, it seems.”

     “But…” I could not argue with that, and cut myself off before my indignant retort could embarrass me further.

     The Fool giggled at my obvious unease. “You’re already learning to keep your mouth shut when you have no purchase to speak,” he praised. He then smiled at me, completely changing the subject. “What were you doing before I so disturbed you? Were you pining?”

     “No…” I did not appreciate my relationship being trivialized in such a way. “I simply found myself with some time alone and decided to spend it outside. When you arrived, I was admiring the view.” I gestured around at the flowers, which were in bloom, and the lovely blue sky. “It is far too lovely to be indoors.”

     The Fool spread his arms invitingly. “And now that I am here, you can admire the view.” He laughed lightly. “For I am far too lovely to be indoors.” His grin made it obvious he was jesting.

     I grimaced and rolled my eyes. “Again I must ask: is everything amusing to you?”

     “Are you insinuating that you disagree?" the Fool retorted, avoiding the question. "I put quite a lot of care into looking lovely enough to impress the likes of you.”

     “No!” The word was almost pushed out of me, and I tugged my hair in frustration. It was impulsive answer, but speaking the Fool always confused me and put me in a strange mood.

     “So you think I'm lovely?” the Fool pursued the question, and then brought his hand to his cheek in false pride. “You'll make a lady blush!”

     This did not help my confusion. I could not form a response, and instead covered my face with my hands, flustered and irritated. I was dimly aware of him laughing next to me, laughing so hard that he was doubled over, hands on his knees. “Oh, Fitz,” he gasped. “You always know the right thing to make a bad day good.”

     I dropped my hands and stared at the Fool, watching him to try to read his expression. “A bad day? What do you mean by that?”

     “Oh.” The Fool waved his hand. “You know. The usual harsh words. A few rotten tomatoes here and there.” He pointed out a stain on his trousers. “And... _R_ egal.” He rolled the sound.

     It was an instinctive action on my part to clench my fists and crack my knuckles. “What’s he done?” I growled in a low voice.

     “Vague muttered threats with more conviction than courage,” he said, shrugging nonchalantly. “It's not a big deal.”

     “You know as well as I do that he would make good on those threats if he was able,” I remarked, thinking of every instance in which I had ever wanted to throttle Regal.

     “But he can't.” He tried to sound casual, but even I could sense the panicked undertone to his voice. “He cannot, because he has no power.” He nodded. “Right?”

     “He has more power than you or me…” I spoke softer this time, trying to both warn and comfort him. I had been well-trained to observe political relationships. “You are, however, under the protection of the King.”

     The Fool nodded quickly, partially reassuring himself. “Yes. King Shrewd is my protector.” I could tell both he and I were trying not to think of the King’s failing health.

     “But it would be wise to remain out of Regal’s sight,” I expanded, “lest he happen upon you whilst drunk or in a temper.”

     The Fool chuckled, walking slow circles around me like a wolf circling a kill. “Perhaps you ought to be my chosen protector then,” he quipped, “like a knight of old tales.”

     I had learned by now not to follow his movements, but stayed quite still, looking at the place he had started his circuit. “If I can…” I said in resignation, though I had to admit that it would be difficult to do so with the Fool’s habit of making himself scarce for days. “Although, avoiding him altogether would be best.”

     The Fool eventually made his way back to his starting point and gave me a detached shrug. “Of course. I don’t seek the man out. I may be a fool, but I am not an idiot.” He crossed his arms now, shifting his weight onto one leg.

     “Perhaps…” I replied absently. At some point during the pause between his words and mine I had lost track of the conversation, imagining instead a scenario in which I was poisoning Regal. It took the Fool a few tries to shake me, snapping his fingers in front of my face and wiggling his fingers at me.

     “FitzChivalry?” he asked gently, genuine concern creeping into his voice.

     Even after his intrusion, I still stared blankly into the distance, trying to remember something important I had once heard: something to do with, “Poison…” I said aloud, hardly audible.

     The Fool let out a sharp sigh, all concern draining from his voice. “Fitz!” he said shrilly, and then suggested with the mere intent of breaking my train of thought: “Come now, shall we walk?”

     The words jarred me and I finally blinked. “I-I suppose, if that is what you wish,” I stammered, caught off guard. The near-grip I had on the object of my remembrance slipped away.

     The Fool impatiently tugged my arm, but let go after I took my first step to join him. “The flowers are blooming nicely this year,” he mused, putting just enough of an emphasis on his words to make it clear to me that he was leading me away from the subject of Regal. The effort was futile: I only looked long enough at the flowers to make note of which ones were poisonous, and nodded briefly at the Fool’s observation.

     “What did he threaten you with?” I asked. If I had my way, Regal would be dead ten times over by now.

     “The usual,” said the Fool. He did not seem to want to speak of it as he ran his fingertips lightly over the blossoms. His lips moved soundlessly, perhaps reciting the names to himself.

     “But what is the usual? You never tell me,” I pressed with only a hint of complaint. Noting that he had stopped I did as well, turning to look at him. It struck me how well his motley and paleness blended with the flora; the produced effect was rather lovely.

     The Fool, for his part, did not look at me, but kept his gaze on the flowers. “It matters not,” he breathed. “Merely the empty threats of a spoiled prince.”

     “They are not empty and you know it,” I scolded him, though I knew he spoke from fear. “If he sees the opportunity, he will take it. Or send someone else to do it for him.”

     “Such as the royal assassin, perhaps?” the Fool retorted, and then fell silent for a full thirty seconds. Then, he suddenly dropped into a cross-legged position on the ground. “He did not threaten me,” he admitted. “Nothing he can to me will have any effect.”

     That made no sense to me. “How so?” I asked, sitting beside my companion. “If he were angry enough, he could kill you, Fool. That would have a great effect, do you not agree?”

     The Fool shook his head. “He would not risk his father’s wrath. And even if he did, I would no longer be present for it to affect.” He lifted a hand as if he meant to lay it on my shoulder, but faltered and withdrew it. “He threatened you.”

     This was not surprising to me. “He threatened me?” Regal had always hated me, but he had never spoken of his threats to me to others, although the feeling was mutual. “Why? Why threaten you by threatening me?”

     The Fool simply stared at me the way he did when I was particularly slow to pick up on a jest. At my silence, he shook his head and stood. “One day, FitzChivalry, you will not have to ask me that,” he said completely seriously. Then, as he often did, he simply walked away from me. I knew it was useless to follow.


End file.
